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#confessional poetry
i-want-to-be-a-poet · 5 months
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God is dead and i wear his skin
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thisispoetrybyamyy · 1 month
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Right now, I can't love anyone, That's why I don't want to offer anyone the sweet treat of love because so much is already happening in my life, And I fear I might ruin someone's life by loving them.
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hairtusk · 4 months
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Anne Sexton, With Mercy for the Greedy (1973)
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creatinganewwlife · 28 days
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Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals
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velvetkisses28 · 2 months
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a billionaire and an eco-fascist can never be a tortured poet.
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fragmentsofemelia · 9 months
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beneaththemooon · 1 year
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Vessels Volume I
Vessels Volume I holds 4 chapters, 35 black and white images and 66 poems.
Deals with a woman going through agony and despondency in her romantic relationships. Her understanding about identity has been stunned. She veers strict enforcement that men has inflicted upon her, a woman's sexual behavior is exceedingly complex, who wants transparency when you can have magic? Is it impossible for a child to be his own father? A child to be her own mother? When we no longer know how to understand who we are, split the root of the flower.
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malenastefano · 4 months
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my poetry website it's finally out: painfullymyself.neocities.org ♡ this one it's one of my favourite poems.
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typewriter-worries · 1 year
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For so many years I was good enough to eat: the world looked at me and its mouth watered.
Next Day, Randall Jarrell
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abitbrokenpoetry · 7 months
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your name will always bring with it a soft sort of sadness.. that falls around my shoulders & embraces me like a blanket. Or a hug.. a thousand memories of your moonbeam smile. And starlit eyes. Filtered through layers of nostalgia.. I’ll remember what was.. but it will be all the what could have beens… that will cause me to swallow the tears until they form oceans within me.. and perhaps when I’m alone one might slip from my eyes & onto my pillow.. as I wish it was your face I was gazing at in the near darkness. Long lashes on your cheekbones… maybe I wouldn’t feel so alone.. maybe I would be happier then.. there will always be an empty hole in me shaped exactly like you and you will never know.
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sadowlswriting · 2 months
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I don't call myself a poet. 
I don't feel as though I'm good enough to claim the title as one. 
I say, "I write little poems. I write little stories." . 
Yet, that is it.  
I'm not a poet. I'm not a storywriter. 
 
My words and phrases are too chaotic, too meaningless, to call myself a poet. 
My stories are made too thoughtlessly, litered with too many mistakes, for me to call myself a storywriter. 
And my hands shake too much, and my drawings are never the same style, so I never call myself an artist; "I just draw. I just experiment."
 
I label the things I do with what my intentions were in the beginning. 
I say I will write a poem, and it comes out like this, yet I slap a label of poetry on it, and hope no one goes against it. 
Because if I didn't label my work with what I intended to do, 
Then what is it? 
Then who am I? 
                                                                              -Owl. 
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i-want-to-be-a-poet · 2 months
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thisispoetrybyamyy · 1 month
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I find myself in constant dialogue with you in my head
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casper-spills · 9 months
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But a poem is never actually finished. It just stops moving.
Sayori in Doki Doki Literature Club
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lovingsylvia · 1 year
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Anne Sexton’s poem “Courage” featured in the Netflix movie To the Bone (2017), starring Lily Collins and Keanu Reeves.
For a detailed breakdown, see: https://www.buzzfeednews.com
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COURAGE
It is in the small things we see it. The child’s first step, as awesome as an earthquake. The first time you rode a bike, wallowing up the sidewalk. The first spanking when your heart went on a journey all alone. When they called you crybaby or poor or fatty or crazy and made you into an alien, you drank their acid and concealed it. Later, if you faced the death of bombs and bullets you did not do it with a banner, you did it with only a hat to comver your heart. You did not fondle the weakness inside you though it was there. Your courage was a small coal that you kept swallowing. If your buddy saved you and died himself in so doing, then his courage was not courage, it was love; love as simple as shaving soap. Later, if you have endured a great despair, then you did it alone, getting a transfusion from the fire, picking the scabs off your heart, then wringing it out like a sock. Next, my kinsman, you powdered your sorrow, you gave it a back rub and then you covered it with a blanket and after it had slept a while it woke to the wings of the roses and was transformed. Later, when you face old age and its natural conclusion your courage will still be shown in the little ways, each spring will be a sword you’ll sharpen, those you love will live in a fever of love, and you’ll bargain with the calendar and at the last moment when death opens the back door you’ll put on your carpet slippers and stride out.
–Anne Sexton, “Courage” in The Awful Rowing Toward God, 1975
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Image source: https://www.buzzfeednews.com/
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poems-of-nothing · 1 year
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Sometimes
I don’t know 
if we even 
know each other— 
sometimes 
I don’t know 
what's going on— 
sometimes 
I’m just confused— 
sometimes 
I don’t think 
you care— 
sometimes 
I wonder if there are 
other things 
you hide from me. 
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